The Case of the Elephant in the Room
by EtherDoc
Summary: *** Season 3 Spoilers *** BBC Canon/Doyle references. Uses the personal blog of Dr. John Watson as a prompt. Mary's off doing (dull) those things she talked about in her phone call. She mentioned a domestic but it was (DULL DULL DULL) already forgotten. There's a case and the work is all that matters! Good thing - how else would Sherlock be able to entertain John for a few days?
1. Chapter 1

"Good news. There's going to be a homicide."

There was no reply from the man wrapped in a red dressing gown and sprawled across the couch. The disheveled figure plucked aimlessly at the violin he cradled in his arms and stared up at the ceiling. John waited to the count of ten to continue.

"If I find any more body parts in the fridge someone is going to get hurt," he said, holding the plastic bag with its congealing fluids at arms length. "What are these?"

Sherlock moved his bow to point at the bag.

"Severed fingers."

"Yes, but _why_?"

"You. Tell. Me."

Sherlock sat up, concentrating on John over steepled fingers. Those sharp eyes made John feel like his thoughts were being dissected on a laboratory table. John struggled to form an intelligent reply. Ten hours seeing patients, no dinner, a couple of pints, and he was expected to have _this_ conversation.

He answered, "They're all the same finger - the ring finger. And similar in size. Women's fingers?"

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. There was a warmth in that praise that made John swell with satisfaction. It quickly dissipated as Sherlock fished through John's coat and returned to the couch with his phone. Fingers flew across the keypad as Sherlock went back to ignoring him.

"Could you bother to ask first? What are you doing with that now?"

Sherlock couldn't even be bothered to answer.

"Give that back," John demanded. "Don't throw it! Christ!"

John caught the phone in midair as it beeped with a new text message.

"That's you, isn't it?" John folded his arms across his chest.

John was not playing this game.

Again.

"I'm going to get some food. Want anything?" he tried.

Sherlock pointed to John's phone.

_Nothing for me, thanks. SH_

John couldn't help himself. He checked the outgoing message.

_If wedding ring is missing arrest husband. SH_

"I don't know how you managed that but I'm sure it was fantastic like always."

Sherlock's chin tilted up with pride, indicating John's sarcasm had gone over his head completely. John bowed his head and rubbed at his tired eyes. _For such a brilliant man you really are an idiot_, John thought as he shut the door behind him_, about so many things_. The lilting sounds of Tchaikovsky followed him as he walked out onto the street.

The next day was more of the same, but with snickers and eye rolling. He knew exactly what Sherlock was reading from behind the computer screen from the new commentary on his blog. His icy stares and huffing were ignored, so he sipped his tea and tried to read the paper. Sherlock hadn't slept at all last night, which meant John had also not slept well. What he really needed was-

_Biscuits in the pantry. SH_

"Sherlock, how long are you going do this? It isn't funny."

_It's not a joke, it's deduction. SH_

"It's annoying. And if you don't stop I'll put that picture up on my blog."

Sherlock looked positively alarmed, so John knew he'd scored a point.

"I wouldn't really," he added when Sherlock started to sulk. Sherlock perked back up when his phone got a text. He scanned the message rapidly and was on his feet in an instant, dancing on his toes like a school boy.

_You were right. There's been a murder. SH_

A car pulled up outside and Sherlock danced over to the window with an indecent grin on his face, excited by the prospect of a new case.

_Good thing you're here. SH_

"And here I'll stay."

_You should come. SH_

"No," John replied, trying to stop his lips from tugging up into a smile. With Mary gone at her bridal shower it wasn't as if he had anything more interesting to do.

Sherlock shrugged on his coat, turning up the collar with a quick flick. John watched Sherlock's reflection in the mirror as he tousled that wavy hair and the reflection dropped him a wink. John grabbed his jacket.

Lestrade was outside leaning against an unmarked black car and smoking. Sherlock glanced at the thin white cigarette and Lestrade put it out under his foot. They piled in and headed towards Brockley, a small district a few kilometers from Charing Cross.

"The facts. Briefly if you can," Sherlock said.

"Not this time Sherlock. You need to see this for yourself."

The car pulled up to a small suburban house and Sherlock jumped out before it had stopped moving. He laughed to himself, spinning around to get a 360 degree view of the street. Everything from the cars in the driveways to the manicured lawns screamed ordinary. "The more commonplace the details, the more difficult the case. Where are the bodies?" and he rubbed his hands together like it was Christmas morning.

"This way," Lestrade answered, waving them both inside through the front door.

"Bodies?" John asked. His phone beeped in his pocket and John stopped in his tracks. "Never mind, it's not important. Of course there are two bodies."

Sherlock gave him a look. Not the one that said _we both know what's going on here_, rather _how do you get on with that ordinary brain_? Then Lestrade opened a small door into a sitting room and the haughtiness left Sherlock. John felt something like smugness rising in his chest. The great detective hadn't seen this coming.

The crime scene was a small room in a small house that was sparsely furnished and dirty. The ash from the fireplace spilled out onto the brick hearth and cobwebs clung to dark corners. There was a gun and a great deal of blood on the floor, and standing in the middle of the room was a living elephant.


	2. Chapter 2

The elephant shifted its bulky weight restlessly as if bored by the people poking about the room. Between its legs were two male bodies of different ages with strong Indian facial features. An old leather couch was pushed up against one blank white wall and sunlight peeked in through dirty windows and long faded curtains.

John stared at the mammal with his usual charmingly bewildered expression. Sherlock ignored the elephant having apparently dismissed it and knelt down to examine the bodies. He pulled out his magnifying glass and went about his business as if the creature did not exist.

"Does this make any sense to you?" Lestrade asked. The detective was studying the fingernails of one of the bodies.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

After a long pause Lestrade asked, "Double homicide?"  
"I think you should stop talking," Sherlock muttered, rolling up the shirtsleeves of the older deceased man to examine his arms. "There's bruising on the upper arms indicating a well utilized injection site, most likely for insulin. The footprints on the floor indicate he walked with a limp. Given the pattern of wear on each shoe I think you'll find he had several toes medically amputated from his left foot."

Sherlock ran his hands down the man's jacket, hunting. He pulled out a bottle of prescription pills from one breast pocket. He blinked rapidly as a series of conclusions occurred to him:  
_Diabetic._

_Diabetic with health problems._

_Diabetic with __health problems__ heart disease_.

"This man wasn't murdered. He died of a heart attack," John said.

Sherlock allowed a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. He moved to the other body. His agile fingers probed the man's chest, finding broken ribs and signs of hemorrhaging. The man's face reflected a great deal of pain.

Ex_ecution by elephant, _Sherlock thought, _original._

From the dead man's pant pockets Sherlock pulled out a new cell phone and the keys to a Mercedes.

"He doesn't have any money or credit cards in his wallet. Gambler?" Lestrade asked, desperately trying to piece something together.

"Wrong," Sherlock said.

He slid open the dead man's phone and scrolled through the text messages.

"You could tell us instead of trying to show off, " John suggested.

"No, he can't," Lestrade said.

Sherlock moved to the windows. He could feel John watching expectantly behind him. He pushed aside the curtains to reveal long panes of glass running from floor to ceiling.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called across the room.

"Busy, Lestrade."

Smudges on the glass formed a pattern. Sherlock recreated the movement that had made them with his own fingers. The tall glass folded effortlessly to create a doorway. A doorway large enough for an elephant. Just outside he found an unusual tool leaning against the house. He tossed a short metal hook to Lestrade.

"What does it all mean?" Lestrade asked desperately.

"Revenge?" John ventured.

Sherlock held up his hand. He needed facts not speculation.

"Tell me the information you have regarding the victims," Sherlock demanded.

Chief Inspector Lestrade leafed through a manila folder and pulled out a sheet of paper.

"Baldev Patel, age 39. Tier 5 visa for temporary work, expired six months ago. He's lived here for almost a year as a tenant. The other one is Abhinac Arya, 66. He is a minor government official so this will all need to be kept out of the news."

"Your fans will be disappointed," John remarked.

Sherlock was quick to send him a text in reply.

_You're the one who cares what people say. SH_

"No known family or friends. Neighbors say they keep mostly to themselves. We got a call this morning because of the noise," Lestrade rambled on uselessly.

John and Lestrade both turned to the gray elephant, who stood patiently staring back at them. Sherlock grimaced and made for the doorway before it was too late. Lestrade shouted and jumped back as the animal let go a torrent of urine onto the floor.

Sherlock walked outside, head bent over the phone of Mr. Arya.

John was holding his wet shoes with disgust. Sherlock sniffed at the distinct smell

and filed it away with the collective data he kept on animal aromas.

"Small size, small ears, no tusks. Clearly a young female Asiatic elephant domesticated by a capable mahout and trained to act as a unique tool of death," Sherlock said without looking up.

"You don't think this was an accident then?" Lestrade asked.

"That would be an obvious solution and the wrong one," said Sherlock. "This was all very deliberate. At this point there's only one thing left to do."

"And what's that?" Lestrade sighed.

"Get some lunch."


	3. Chapter 3

Lunch was Spanish tapas at Tierra Brindisa in a booth overlooking the busy street. At night the dim lighting created an intimate dining experience, hiding dingy tables and worn flooring under a veil of romanticism. In the afternoon sun it became a shabby little eatery good for business meetings and a quick cup of decent coffee. At this time of day the three men were the only patrons.

Lestrade kept glancing up at the man that had ushered them in and now stood beaming over their table. John held the menu in front of his face with two hands and pointedly ignored Sherlock.

"Angelo," Sherlock greeted the grinning restaurant owner.

"Had a row, have you?" Angelo asked sympathetically, patting John on the back.

John lowered his menu and rolled his eyes. "We are not a bloody-"

"Just tea for me," Sherlock interjected before the doctor could finish.

"Sure thing, and I'll bring two pints for your friends. On the house, of course," Angelo said.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table as they waited. He dabbed continuously at his nose with a napkin, sniffing delicately as if embarrassed that he could have a human condition like a runny nose.

"Head cold? I had one last week. It's going around," Lestrade said.

"He's been running a low grade fever too. Sick and too damn stubborn to admit it. You should be in bed, Sherlock," John said.

"Bed is boring," Sherlock replied.

"Is that why yours is covered with blood?" John asked, and Lestrade choked on his beer, coughing and sputtering into his arm.

Sherlock became engrossed by his cell phone. He didn't speak another word after the food arrived at the table, but Lestrade suspected he was sending text messages by the way John's expression grew darker each time his phone beeped.

Then it was back to 221B and within minutes Mrs. Hudson was bringing a guest up the stairs. In the doorway a small thin man held his hands together and gave them each a formal bow.

"Ah, Mr. Mehra. Sit down. The chair," Sherlock suggested. Sherlock joined John on the couch.

"I got your message, Mr. Holmes. Will she be okay?" he asked.

"The police believe she has killed a man," answered Sherlock. The little man nodded darkly.

"I should not have left her. Abhinac-babu died so suddenly. Please, Mr. Holmes, I am a most unfortunate man in all this world. Do not let them arrest me before I explain to you the truth."

Sherlock's expressive face showed as much satisfaction as sympathy. John nudged him with one elbow until his lips turned back down into a more appropriate frown. Lestrade stepped forward, handcuffs at the ready.

"Mr. Mehra, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen's name for-"

"Just a minute, Lestrade," Sherlock said, "this man was about to clear up some of the more puzzling details."

"Sherlock, I can't imagine this becoming clear to anyone but you."

"I'd like to hear what he has to say," the detective insisted.

The two men stared at one another until Lestrade gave in with a sigh. After everything they'd been through, everything Sherlock had done, he couldn't possibly say no.

"Two minutes," Lestrade agreed, although he knew Sherlock would take as much time as he needed. The Indian man was sitting with crossed legs on the couch, eyes downcast. He waited for a nod from Holmes before beginning his narrative.

"After my mother died Abhinac-babu raised me like his own son. He was a rich man and I was honored that he would grant me an inheritance. There was a raid and he lost his ivory and his fortune and had to flee to Africa. I met someone and we became close, like... brothers." Mehra paused.

"It's not unnatural that you should find such a companion," Sherlock offered.

Lestrade struggled to keep a straight face as the doctor cleared his throat and studied the floor carefully.

Sherlock was droning on, "so you told Baldev the important details of your life, and he assumed your identity in hopes of extracting Ayra's trust and wealth."

"This was extreme violation in nature. Abhinac-babu was most angry. It is a matter of izzat or honor. He had been living under Abhinac's roof, eating his food, spending his money. He demanded more although Abhniac lived modestly and had little."

"So you used your elephant to crush him?" Lestrade asked, both disgusted and amazed.

"Of course not," Sherlock interrupted quickly. "He gave Ayra the hook and the elephant obeyed. So there you have it, inspector. That was most enlightening. It's been a golden evening for me. So, Mr. Mehra, when do you leave for Africa?"

Lestrade looked dubious. "I can't just let him go!"

"This man has every chance to live as happy a life as he can make for himself. There's no need to obscure it with this black cloud."

"But Sherlock-" Lestrade heard the desperation in his own voice.

"A jury would never give you a conviction based on such circumstantial evidence," Sherlock insisted.

Lestrade grabbed the Indian man's elbow firmly and steered him towards the door before he could bolt. He might not get a conviction but he could at least take his statement. It wouldn't make the paperwork any easier, but it would alleviate his nagging conscious.


	4. Chapter 4

As much as John projected a calm coolness, Sherlock knew there was anger hidden in those shaking hands and flushed cheeks.

"You lied," John's tone of voice made it clear this wasn't a question.

"I prefer the term obscurification," Sherlock replied lightly.

"I don't care what you call it."

Sherlock had forgotten in their time apart how easily John rose to challenge him, forcing him to explain his _feelings_ actions. While he functioned on a different level than everyone else, with John there was a synchronicity. Which is why this irritation surprised him. Conclusion: John was upset about something else.

"And?" Sherlock asked. John's jaw clenched, but he held his anger and his fists in check. _John, always the soldier_, Sherlock thought.

"Who are you to play judge and jury?" John accused him.

"At least I'm not also the executioner, _doctor_," was the stinging reply. "To do no harm – unless it's to shoot a cabby to save a man you just met."

Forensics had revealed both pills had been poisoned, a fact that had initially surprised Sherlock and became clearer the closer he got to Moriarty. It had been a test, a game within a game, and one he would have failed without John.

Aloud Sherlock said, "I'm not the only one with... flexible morals. You shot an innocent man."

"He was a serial killer, you egotistical bastard!" John spat out incredulously.

"Mr. Mehra is not," Sherlock said and hoped that would end the conversation.

"So you trust _him_? But not us, not your friends, because we're all so stupid!"

"Not stupid, ordinary," Sherlock gave a nervous chuckle, unsure how to proceed when he wasn't sure of the end result.

"You don't trust people. You don't trust me. Is that why you couldn't tell me? Two years, Sherlock. Two bloody years!"

Behind them the kettle whistled for attention, and Sherlock broke away to provide it. He poured the tea deliberately and slowly, considering. He didn't have an answer he could give John.

"We settled this," he tried.

"That doesn't count, Sherlock! You made me think we were going to die in an explosion."

"John, I've tested our friendship..."

"Damn right you have," John snarled from behind him, the agitation in his voice making Sherlock's shoulders twitch. He stirred the tea, still facing the kitchen.

"Your assistance has been invaluable to me," Sherlock replied. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt something uncontrolled and dangerous rise up in his chest. "As you said, I fight crimes, you blog about it. What else do you want?"

"I don't know," John was behind him. His hand reached around to take his tea. Sherlock turned to face him.

John waited without drinking his tea.

Sherlock broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not. You never are," John answered, heading towards the door. "Not really."

Sherlock stared a moment at the empty doorway, then at the cooling cup of tea on the counter. It was nestled between the dirty beakers, petri dishes, and other glassware. Glancing around the flat he looked for any other sign of John. The chair was gone, moved upstairs where it didn't obscure his view of the kitchen. All John's medical books and magazines were missing from the bookcases and dust was collecting where they used to take up space. This was the flat of a single man.

Sherlock brought the cup to his lips and drank.

Coming back to London had changed everything.


End file.
